


Behind the scenes

by vladnyrki



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Semi original character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vladnyrki/pseuds/vladnyrki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is about Mary and Richard, told from behind the scenes, that's to say, from Violet's, Martha's and Mark Carlisle's POV. Here Mary and Richard are rather a bit like Moby Dick...</p><p> </p><p>Every event in s3 and CS is canon, here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waiting for the train

The Downton station platform was unusually crowded, even for Christmastime.  
  
This was the time of the year when the villagers, those who could afford it, ventured to Ripon or even York to buy new garments, the last gifts or seasonal treats for the children to indulge on. For that reason alone, the customary slow pace that characterized the village train station was replaced by disturbing, humming activity. In normal times, Lady Violet did not like the train and anything associated with this mode of transport. The noise was deafening, the smell of smoke and heated metal and people was nauseating. Above all, even if the existence of the First, Second and Third Class maintained a certain social order, she could not help but have the feeling of a rather implacable, worrying disappearance of old conventions. What was the point of separating people on the train if while waiting for it one still had to endure the noisy children and share a seat with a tenant's red-faced wife?  
  
For that reason alone, the Dowager avoided the train like the plague, and the customary summer trip to London for the Season was more than enough for her. However, the winter cold had been especially biting this year. Ice and fresh snow covered the roads, which made it dangerous to drive to Ripon as she and Mary had planned earlier. Her granddaughter needed to pick up the gift for her husband, a rare edition of some sort, which had finally arrived at the book shop, whereas the Dowager still had to find the gift that would satisfy both her need to spoil her first great-grandchild and Tom's sensibilities. To be honest, accepting the chauffeur as part of the family had been difficult, but their common mourning, their shared pain and their will to cherish Sybil's memory made him an integral part of the Crawley clan as far as the Dowager was concerned. For better and for worse, Tom was her great grandchild's father.Alas! Instead of a nice, comfortable outing in the shelter of the car, their little trip to town had become a true adventure of the sort Violet preferred to stay clear.  
  
As a consequence, here they were sitting on the crowded platform waiting for a train that seemed not to be coming at all. Fortunately, the last remnants of deference had not totally disappeared from the county, and both women had managed to find a place to sit sheltered from the icy wind that came down from the North without any difficulty. However, that was the only consolation in such a dire situation, the Dowager noted as she resisted the urge to reprimand the scallywags who had decided to claim the iced platform as their new playing and sliding ground. Instead, she chose to imitate Mary's proud and impassible posture and sit straighter with the help of her cane. Maybe this would remind the people around her who they were waiting for the train with.  
  
At the very least, Violet hoped it would intimidate the little rascals and discourage unwanted scrutiny from the man standing on the platform, a folded newspaper in a gloved hand, calmly leaning on his cane. Apparently indifferent to the wind and oblivious to the commotion provoked by the children playing around him, he had been watching both women quite intently for a few minutes now, and this fact alone was unnerving.  
  
The fact that Violet felt as if she knew him was even more unsettling.  
  
Actually, the elder man's blue eyes were fixed on Mary. His stare was insistent and stern under the hem of his hat. If the slight clenching in her granddaughter's delicate jaw was any indication, the young woman was conscious of the unforgiving observation as well. Mary being Mary, she returned the man's hard look, the patented one that had gained her reputation of coldness in the entire county. His only answer was a raised eyebrow and a significant tilt of his head. His blue eyes were still unflinching, his mouth hard under the white mustache. Violet felt Mary sigh heavily beside her before getting up, and leaving her sheltered seat to a young mother burdened with her toddler and her suitcase. As the woman sat down heavily, endlessly thanking Lady Mary for her kindness, the Dowager resisted the urge to roll her eyes in exasperation. If only the roads had been practicable, if only the train had been on time, there would have not been such a fuss. After all, the mother and her child had stepped onto the platform well after Mary and Violet did.  
  
The feeling of familiarity bordered on a sensation of déjà-vu, now. The only problem was that the Dowager could not remember where she had met the man before. The fabric of his dark grey coat was a fine one, even if the cut was extremely simple, a bit old-fashioned. Maybe was he a local gentleman farmer she had met during some garden party organized by another family? However, the typical tartan design of the red, expensive looking scarf indicated that the man was probably not from Yorkshire. Actually, the stare was quite reminiscent of another pair of blue, hard eyes which used to constantly disapprove her granddaughter's behavior or the family's way of life. And, the way the man had resumed reading his journal as soon as he had obtained what he obviously wanted was disturbingly familiar.  
  
Violet was outraged, both by the man's audacity and her granddaughter's unexpected submission, and she darted a hard, indignant look in the man's direction.  
  
"Excuse me, sir," she put as much venom as she could muster in the civil address to underline her doubts about his condition. "Have we met before?"  
  
Before answering, the man took his sweet time to fold the paper carefully.  
  
"I believe not, Lady Grantham."  
  
His voice was calm, with a light Scottish brogue, and the light twitch of his lips revealed he was quite enjoying the game.  
  
"And you are?" Violet enquired with barely concealed hostility. Instinctively, she did not like the man at all, just the way she felt when Mary had invited the newspaper man to Downton for the first time.  
  
"Granny, let me introduce you to Mark Carlisle, Richard's father." Mary answered instead with a clipped voice.  
  
The man tilted his head respectfully, raising his gloved hand to his hat.  
  
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Lady Grantham." The sarcasm in his tone was unmistakable. Then he turned slightly to her granddaughter, repeating the polite gesture. "Lady Mary. My son's descriptions weren't an exaggeration."  
  
Violet recognized a double meaning when she heard one. This was a declaration of war in due form.  
  
"The pleasure is mine," Mary responded automatically while her whole attitude betrayed her discomfort. "I see that the photographs in his office are true to nature."  
  
"The ones he hides in his drawer whenever I travel down to London to visit him?" Mark commented with the hint of conniving smile. The man's tactic was obvious and implacable. Was there a better way to denounce Mary's lack of involvement than evoking a familiarity that should have existed and never did in reality?  
  
"I… I suppose so, Mr. Carlisle. I didn't travel that much to London," came the lame, almost shy reply.  
  
"Sure you didn't," he rejoined, his accent getting heavier with each word.  
  
So it was the first time Mary ever met her former fiancé's father, which was not really a surprise if you consider how she, and the whole family behind her, vehemently resisted to the notion of traveling to Scotland in order to make the proper presentations. It was not a lady's place to travel all the way up north to meet with a family of nobodies.  
  
That was where self-made men like Sir Richard came from, wasn't it?  
  
To be honest, Violet had never given a single thought to Carlisle's background, merely considering him like an inconvenient obstacle to be removed. And, judging by Mary's reaction which bordered on embarrassment, the young woman barely thought about her former future in-laws either.  
  
Until this day, Richard only had been a lonely, abstract figure, an intruder that the family had to protect themselves from. A man they simply did not like. Little had she thought that the Carlisles could feel a reciprocal animosity. In front of her stood an indignant father judging and disapproving what the Crawleys had done to his boy.  
  
Suddenly, it felt as if the table had been turned, and a whole new game had begun.  
  
"And what business brought you here just two days before Christmas?" Violet came to her granddaughter's rescue. Was saving Mary from a Carlisle's clutches becoming a Christmas tradition of some sort? "Is your son starting a new tradition at Haxby to ease himself in his new costume of an estate owner?"  
  
"Not at all," Mark Carlisle answered candidly, eyebrows raised and usually narrow eyes widened all of a sudden. "Richie is out of the country, visiting my daughter in New Zealand, and I was checking the progression in the installation of the central heating. I've to say I'm really disappointed in your English workers' competences."  
  
"Because they won't let your son enslave them?" Violet snapped back, remembering clearly a conversation in which the expression cracking the whip had been uttered.  
  
"Because they're lazy bastards who take advantage of a distant and rich employer?" he answered without missing a bit. "Do we have to accept being fooled just because we can afford it?"  
  
"I see that Richard's success and sense of entitlement had contaminated the rest of the family," Mary interjected coldly, having recovered from the first unexpected blow at last. If only she could stop pacing and revealing how much the cold was bothering her when the elder man was standing oblivious to the wind, it would be perfect. One just could not give the merest advantage to this kind of men. "You seem to enjoy the position your son's money gave you a trifle too much."  
  
"What should I do? Refuse his gifts? Refuse to help him when he needs it? Deny the fruits of his life work? Trample on our family values of hard work?" he replied back, his voice raising a little over the crowd's humming. "Let me tell you one thing, Lady Mary. I'm very proud of my son, and I've the weakness to believe that he owes part of his success to the education we gave him."  
  
"And what kind of education would that be?" Violet asked, not hiding her disbelief. How could anybody be proud of having fathered a hawker of newspapers gossip and a blackmailer?  
  
"Simple, exactly what my own father told me. Study hard, work harder, see the world, don't spend money you don't have, always keep in mind that the wheel can turn any time. And the most important rule of all: do better than your father. That's how our family elevated itself from a sailor during the Napoleonic Wars to a millionaire in about a century. Thanks to education and hard work."  
  
"You make it sound like a plan," the Dowager commented bitterly. Such an education explained a great deal of Richard's behavior, his barely concealed contempt, his incomprehension of the Crawleys' ways. Once more, she rejoiced in Mary's wise choice, but for another reason entirely. In spite of his vehement protests, it had been easy to bully Tom into a morning coat, and more extensively their world, in spite of his grandiloquent declarations, Matthew was more of an aristocrat than many Earl's son. Richard was another beast, backed up by a proud and intransigent family. He would have never been one of them. Worse, he could have changed Mary…  
  
"Not really. We'd planned a millionaire for next generation; Richard just skipped a few steps, that's all."  
  
"And in this grand scheme of things, what was your own place, I wonder?" Curiosity had always been Violet's worst flaw, and it overcame her in the worst moments, when reason dictated she should not give more occasions to her opponent to share his views."  
  
"A modest editor of the Art and Literature section in the Edinburgh Telegram, and an ephemeral independent publisher." His expression as he presented his own achievement was anything but modest, even when he conceded his failure. "Even if Richie and I have our disagreements about the ethics of journalism, I can appreciate he succeeded where I failed."  
  
"Publishing dirty gossip?" Mary intervened, the fugitive expression of anguish on her face betraying how some scars healed too slowly.  
  
"Taking the readers and their needs into account. Accepting the idea that newspapers aren't textbooks but a source of distraction as much as a source of information. Playing with the sharks and beating them at their own game." Carlisle pronounced his tirade in a lower, calmer voice, standing straighter without the help of his cane. "But I suppose that the strategies of journalism don't interest you as much now that you're safely married to the heir to the title and estate."  
  
The clenching in the elder man jaw, his biting tone and his cold stare betrayed a deep resentment. At the same time, the outburst seemed to make Mary retreat into her shell once more. Carlisle men appeared to have this particular talent to transform the young woman into a hesitant little thing.  
  
"Mr. Carlisle, you must understand that was Mary's choice, and that, unfortunately for your son's affections, my granddaughter's history with Matthew Crawley was deep rooted and that it only was a regrettable misunderstanding that had kept them apart for so long." For the first time since she had met Richard Carlisle, the Dowager recognized that the newspaperman's courtship of her granddaughter was not entirely about ambition.  
  
"That's how you call it?" Indignation perspired in his every word.  
  
"How else would you call it?" Once more, Mary had recovered and she was biting again, as always whenever Matthew was concerned. Violet had always been impressed by her granddaughter resilience, and this was one of these times. The young woman was her blood, no doubt about that.  
  
"How about leading Richie on? Using his connections when you needed them? Humiliating him by choosing the man who had placed his sacred honor above you when the man who was your fiancé was willing to spend less time with his family in Scotland or his friends in London to bury himself in the middle of nowhere?" Violet could see his gloved hand gripping the cane harder and harder as he went on with his tirade. "Kicking him out after having prevented him from spending Christmastime with his own folks?" His voice almost cracked in anger. "I know that we live on different planets but in our world, when a girl invites a lad to meet the parents, it means that a ring is expected very soon, and that a positive answer awaits an eventual proposal. I don't know your own customs, tough."  
  
It was easy to remove an obstacle to the family's happiness and reject a man you did not consider suitable for your granddaughter as long as you conveniently forgot how your actions could affect other people who had nothing to do with your feud. Moreover, she could not help but sympathize with the man's anger. If Cora's family had acted with Robert the way the Crawleys had done with Richard – after all, at first, Robert's courting had not been that different from Richard's – she would have made them regret bitterly every slight and insult. That was what parents did. And Richard Carlisle was not the fruit of spontaneous generation, had a father, a sister, a quite normal family, in fact. Right there, on the platform, waiting for a train that would not come, Violet regretted her parting snappy remark.  
  
Do you promise?  
  
But there was no way to erase these words. Heartfelt peace offering would have to do.  
  
"I understand your position, Mr. Carlisle, believe I do, but I hope you understand ours…"  
  
"Listen, Lady Grantham," he did not let her finish, a bad trait father and son seemed to share, among others. "I know that Richie isn't perfect. He can be a pain in the arse, forgive my words, he's prone to overreaction when provoked, and tends to forget that his London world isn't the normal world. Sometimes even, his success gets to his head. But he's a good son, he listens to reason, an honest, private conversation does wonders to his stubbornness, and a simple fishing trip to Skye with his old man suffices to put him back in his place."  
  
This was quite an unexpected portrait of Richard Carlisle. What did she expect from his father? The stereotypical description of a heartless and ambitious son who had betrayed his humble roots? A quick look at Mary revealed to the Dowager that her granddaughter was not as surprised as she could have been by this description. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that a feared article had never appeared in the press, in spite of Richard's angry promises.  
  
"I'm not very objective on the matter, I'm afraid, but he didn't deserve any of this, and I surely didn't deserve to see my forty-six-old son appear more than half drunk on my door step on the fifth of January," Mark Carlisle added sternly, after a moment of hesitation. "Why do you think Richie is spending Christmas at the other side of the planet while I'm dealing with your lazy workers and I'm stuck on a train platform in the middle of Yorkshire?"  
  
Violet observed him acutely. Obviously, such an admission shamed him, but he seemed to think that some harsh truths needed to be said. Well, this was another point they could agree on. The man was proud and generally insufferable, just like his son, but one could not deny his involvement as a parent, and this was more than respectable.  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Carlisle." Mary's voice was soft, hesitant. "I… I already told Richard how sorry I was…"  
  
"I know, and I know he had forgiven you, foolish as he is."  
  
Violet raised a surprised eyebrow while Mary kept her eyes down. Well, that would explain many things and especially the lack of articles about a certain Turk or some former valet.  
  
"But I…" he went on, his expression very serious, almost threatening.  
  
The shrieking sound of a train arriving at last covered his last words, fortunately, and made any more chatter impossible. They had been about to enter dangerous, unforgiving territory, and the hard expression on Carlisle's face revealed he felt he had almost said too much. It was better to let the hatchet where it was, deep buried into the ground.  
  
The frozen crowd on the platform came back to life, its humming becoming plain noise. Parents retrieved their playing children, adjusted their coats and caps, and rushed them to the train, ignoring the childish protestations. The train itself was overcrowded, and the passengers had to struggle through the pressing people to get down with their suitcases and packets. For a second, the Dowager was tempted to call it quits and send her maid to town tomorrow. However, Mary had already turned around and began to step to the waiting train, her arms crossed to protect herself from the cold wind, and maybe from unwanted memories.  
  
"Will playing the old woman card right now be another source of disapproval, Mr. Carlisle?" Violet asked as she got up from her seat, trying not to stumble because of her probably frozen toes.  
  
A fugitive, self-conscious smile formed under the mustache. "No, I don't think so." And his hand went to her elbow to stabilize her footing. The Dowager gave him a dark look before stepping ahead, mindful of the ice on the platform.  
  
"Where are you headed, Mr. Carlisle?"  
  
"York, Glasgow, Inverness. One year we spend Christmas with my family in Edinburgh, the following one we travel up North to spend it with my late wife's folks."  
  
"Such a long way…"  
  
"I've got good company," he shrugged. "I don't like the Times but their crosswords are the best."  
  
"But your children…"  
  
"They are spending Christmas on the beach near Auckland, around a barbecue while their cousins and I will morph into solid ice in the Highlands, yes. With a bit of luck, we all will be unfrozen by the time the rascals come back to Scotland this spring."  
  
Christmas on the beach? This was another reason why any association between their families would have been impossible.  
  
"But you wouldn't have it another way, would you?"  
  
Mark Carlisle shook his head. "Honestly, some things could have been better." There was no need to precise what. "But, generally, we're a rather happy and carefree family, and Richie's money improved everybody's lot: good schools for the kids, recognized physicians for the sick, nice houses, work for the ones who need it, it helps a great deal, you know."  
  
The Dowager could relate to this kind of unspoken responsibility. And she finally understood why she had felt that Mary's marriage to Richard had been such a bad idea.  
  
Not because he was insufferable.  
  
Not because he sold newspapers and gossip as a living.  
  
Not because he had bought his title.  
  
This had been a bad idea from the very start because the daily comparison to a rising family would have been too hurtful for her family's assurance and trust in the power of tradition. Accepting Richard would have been too big of a change to swallow, even more than accepting Tom. Everybody had to stay in their place, the Crawley deeply rooted in Yorkshire, the Carlisles happily scattered between London, Edinburgh, Inverness and Auckland.  
  
"I suppose it helps, Mr. Carlisle, I suppose."  
  
Both elders proceeded to walk across the icy platform cautiously, trying to keep steady in the pressing crowd, fending with their canes against the onslaught of suitcases and running children. After a minute or two of thoughtful pondering, Violet heard her unlikely companion mutter at last:  
  
"I hope you'll forgive me for not having presented my sincerest condolences before, Lady Grantham. I can't imagine how horrible it must have been."  
  
This latest sentence stunned the Dowager into silence and she considered his sympathetic face for a beat. She could recognize a declaration of war, and she knew how to recognized an attempt of peace offering.  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Carlisle. Let me present mine as well. I understood your grandson had been a fatality during the war..."  
  
"Michael, yes. My daughter's eldest."  
  
"Do you have other grandchildren?" she enquired in spite of her better judgment. On the one hand it was a topic she should not be broaching with Richard's kin of all people. On the other hand, being able to talk to someone who could understand the gnawing idea that something was wrong in a world that let young people be taken in the prime of their lives when old geezers like her outlasted their stay among the living.  
  
"Four. Two granddaughters, one is engaged and the other one has begun to study literature at Auckland University, I heard. She wants to follow in her father's footsteps. And, of course, the unexpected twins, two boys. Abby will bring them up to Scotland this Spring so that I can meet the two devils at last. And I hope that Richie will come back to his senses one day, also..."  
  
"Grandchildren are a blessing, aren't they?" The evocation of these mysterious two devils had brought Violet back to a time long forgotten, when the girls fought about their dolls' ribbons. How she wished she could go back to that time, and, knowing what would come, cherish those moments so much more.  
  
"Yes, they are..."  
  
As they reached the train at last, they found Mary waiting for her, ready to help Violet into the wagon.  
  
"Are you traveling in this coach as well?" the young woman enquired. The Dowager was satisfied to notice that her granddaughter had regained some colors.  
  
"In coach two, I believe." He touched the hem of his hat. Lady Grantham, Lady Mary, let me wish you a merry Christmas.  
  
Violet noted that the good wish did not extend to the whole family. One could not ask for too much, after all.  
  
"And a merry Christmas to you and your family, Mr. Carlisle," she answered most affably, relishing the slight surprise and embarrassment on his face.  
  
Christmastime did not mean Lady Violet Crawley would not try to have the last word.  
  
Christmastime was the best moment to erase some regrettable words, tough.  
  
Mary and she had barely settled in their compartment when the train whistle made itself heard, announcing the departure to Ripon and York.


	2. By the River Ness

Down the river Ness, a group of passersby strolled lazily under the July sun. At first, Mark Carlisle paid no notice to them. Sunny and warm afternoons with no hint of incoming rain or storm like this one were a rare treat in Inverness, and, on these occasions, a crowd of walkers came out of their houses like rabbits out of their holes. However, as the group came closer, familiar silhouettes caught his attention.

An old woman with an extraordinary hat walking with a cane.

A young woman in a stylish red suit, whose obvious pregnancy did not alter her natural elegance.

He could not recognize the other people in the group, even if he had a good idea about who the very attentive man by Lady Mary’s side was.

 _That_ little invasion was unexpected, to say the least.

And a little bit infuriating, if you remembered how much the Crawleys had balked at the idea of a Scottish son-in-law.

More than a little bit infuriating, to be honest.

The only problem was that the old man could feel his daughter seething by his side on the small terrace of the restaurant where they were enjoying the odd sunny and almost warm day and finishing their seafood platters. Instead of telling his mind _sotto voce_ and criticize all his fill like he ached to at the moment, he would have to keep Abby from going too far. That was the sad lot of a parent of two stronglyopinioned children.

“Dad? Please, tell me those people aren’t the Crawleys.” Indignation perspired in her every word as she tried to put a stop to the ongoing oyster shells battle between the twins.

 “What people?” The old man tried to play dumb. It was a strategy that used to work, back in the days, when Abby still had pigtails and ribbons, and Richard came home from school with scratches on his knees and hands, a bruised cheek or a black eye every single day.

The less than amiable stare his daughter shot at him confirmed his suspicion that his desperate evasive strategy would not work.

“Please, Dad, I’m doing this every day with Rick and Alan…” She stopped mid-sentence to stop Rick’s attempt at bombarding his twin with the remnants of a lobster pincer. Destiny, or some twisted coincidence, had wanted that the most terrible boy was named after his equally restless uncle. “And don’t tell me they have anything to do with the damn McClares!”

Blatant anger had replaced sisterly indignation. Indeed, walking side by side with the Dowager, he could recognize now the youngest McClare daughter, who had grown a lot since he had last seen her. Around Inverness, there was little love for the biggest land owner of the region and for the family that had profited so much from the Highland Clearances.

Mark Carlisle let out a sigh that was a mix of relief and amusement.

So not only were the Crawleys an insufferable bunch of hypocrites who did not want a successful Scot for a son-in-law and, at the same time, enjoyed to invade the North in the summer, but they were also associated in some way with a family Richard and Abby had been taught to despise since their childhood. His late wife and her relatives never hid their contempt for the land owner, the parasite, the local tyrant, much to Mark’s enjoyment. The fact that the Dunbars were a family of successful fishermen and smoke salmon producers who generally despised anyone not living from the see only added fuel to the fire.

Mark Carlisle hid his growing smile by sipping his glass of white wine.

“And you find it funny?” The tell tale twitching at the corner of Abby’s smile revealed her own amused puzzlement.

“Well, in fact, maybe we should thank the Crawleys for being the idiots they were. Can you imagine Richie’s face at the prospect of spending his holidays at the _castle_?”

Abby almost choked on her own wine. Tears formed in her eyes as she tried to contain her giggling. “That’s a sight I would have paid to witness!”

As the strolling group progressed on the path along the river, the old man sobered up at once. Obviously, Lady Mary’s pregnancy was much more advanced than he had thought from afar. Maybe this foolish expedition in the Himalayas Richard had joined under George Mallory’s insistence was not such a bad idea after all.

“I suppose, at the very least, that this new bit of information will help Richard to get over the birth of Lady Mary’s first child when he comes home.”

“I hope so as well,” Abby acquiesced as she took her napkin to clean her boys’ fingers.

For a while, daughter and father remained silent as they observed the group of people who could have been their in-laws.

“What on earth was Richie thinkin’? I mean, look at ‘em, they’re walkin’ as if they owned the place! They’re so diff’rent from us,” Abby commented at last, her voice low, her ordinarily controlled, educated accent going back to the heavy brogue of her childhood so that the approaching group could not spy their conversation.

“Maybe for the same reason ye traveled ‘cross the world to spend the rest of yer life among yer hal’ Maori in-laws? Even an unrepentant womanizer can fall in love, m’ dear,” Mark answered in the same fashion, his eyes on the English brunette who had stolen then broken his son’s heart.

To be honest, this Lady Mary was really something. Mark Carlisle prided himself to be a good observer of human nature, a gift he had passed along to his children, but his short encounter with her last winter had left him more puzzled than anything about the young woman. She was a stunning, elegant beauty but she lacked the natural warmth that would have made her truly breathtaking. Well-aimed barbs could shake her deeply but she could recover quickly and give back as good as she got, then, in the most unexpected manner, utter a sincere apology. Her whole attitude, even walking along the river Ness, betrayed a deep-rooted sense of self-centeredness, but, at the same time, simple, kind gestures, a hand coming to steady her grandmother’s steps, a bright smile to her foolish husband, revealed her capacity to show her affection to her loved ones.

A strange, puzzling creature, indeed.

No wonder Richie had fallen so hard. The woman seemed to be a living mystery, a walking contradiction, and nothing attracted his son more than a good challenge.

The walkers had almost reached the terrace where he was sitting with Abby and the twins. For a second, Mark was tempted to turn around, hide his face, ignore the passerby. Nothing good would come out of a new confrontation, especially with the husband and a McClare added to the picture.

“Look at ‘em,” the restaurant owner mumbled as he retrieved the plates. “Walkin’ ‘round like masters.”

At the same time, the man was right. The way the Crawleys walked around as if they strolled around their estate back in Yorkshire was a bit unnerving.

“Was ev’ry thin’ a’right, Mark?”

Above all, he could not allow that _some_ Crawleys may think that the Carlisle family was chasing after them in any way.

“Perfect as usual, Pete, thank you.”

“Ye don’t have ‘em that good in yer South, d’ye?”

“That’s why I travel up North twice a year, Pete.”

“Damn right, y’do.” The man winked before disappearing into his restaurant, juggling with a rather hazardous pile of plate and shells and other remnants from their luncheon.

After all, Inverness was the place where his late wife rested – marrying a boy from Edinburgh was one thing, being buried in the South another thing entirely – and where he would join her.

The Carlisles were at home here. More importantly, if future conflicts were to be avoided once Richie came out of his restless phase and returned to his habit of spending a few summer weeks between Inverness and Skye, a little territorial defense was in order.

“Lady Grantham, Lady Mary, Lady Rose, what an unexpected surprise,” he stood up to salute the three women he knew in the group, his hand tilting his hat politely.

The blank, open-mouthed expression on the husband’s face was very rewarding.

Lady Mary was the first to recover.  “Mr. Carlisle, it’s a pleasure to meet you again,” she replied, shaking his extended hand, her grip firm as if she was concluding a deal. Probably feeling her husband’s puzzlement, she did not wait to make the presentations. “Matthew, this is Sir Richard’s father, Mr. Mark Carlisle, and this must be his sister from New Zealand… Mrs. Abigail…”

“Abigail Carter, wife of Dr. Isaac Carter,” Abby had stood up as well. “How do you do?”

Mark had to bite his lips at the easiness with which Abby went from her educated accent to heavy brogue and back. The music teacher from Auckland and the spouse of the university teacher was in full representation.

“How do you do?” the husband replied politely, forced as he was to acknowledge her.

For the moment, Lady Grantham was observing the scene silently. Mark looked at her dubiously. What on earth was she thinking about?

“Let me offer my condolences, Mrs. Carter,” he heard Lady Rose from afar. “We heard about Michael.” Of course they did. The McClares knew everything that was going on in their estate and beyond.

“Thank you, Lady Rose.”

“And those two boys must be the twins your cousin Angus talked so much about.”

Mark smiled at that. Nobody liked the McClares, but he had heard that the Marquees’ rebellious third child, who had been confined to the Highlands by her mother, had decided to make friends with all her parents’ local rivals, and most especially the Dunbars.

“Yes. Meet Rick and Alan.”

To an outsider’s eyes, the scene could almost be perceived as cordial, if you ignored Lady Mary’s discomfort, her husband’s doubtful stare and…

“Mr. Gregson, I didn’t know you were spending some time in the Highlands.”

Of course, Mark knew that Lady Edith Crawley wrote for one of Richard’s papers. Hell! Richard knew it as well and had barely shrugged before planning his next move for the coverage of the Olympic Games in Bruxelles in 1920. But what on earth was the editor doing here? What business did he have here, standing so close to the young blond woman who probably was Lady Edith, the second sister?

There was a story in London, about a mad wife…

“Mr. Carlisle, I was planning to pay you a visit, I promise.” For a second, the man almost looked like a scolded schoolboy.

Mark decided to let him out of the hook, for now.

“Lady Edith, I have the pleasure of meeting a promising young colleague at last,” he went on, offering his first genuine smile, noticing that his compliment did not meet Lady Mary’s agreement.

“Thank you, Mr. Carlisle,” she replied shyly, her cheeks suddenly rosy, and not because of the sea wind.

“Mark, please,” he said, observing the husband’s indignant reaction and, most importantly, Gregson’s fugitive but slightly alarmed expression.

“Pardon me, Mr. Carlisle,” Matthew Crawley spoke at last, “but I have to wonder. I thought Sir Richard said your family was from Edinburgh.” He was obviously anxious to reaffirm his position as a protector, clearly implying that the Carlisles were not welcome where the Crawleys were vacationing, visibly searching any trace from his former rival.

“My mother was a Dunbar, and she’s buried here,” Abby answered sharply, her tone leaving no place for argument, her eyes turning grey, steel-like almost. At moments like this, she could be much worse than her brother. “My brother and I have spent all our summers here since we were born, or almost.”

That was a concise and efficient way to sum up the situation, Mark had to concede. Moreover, her intervention allowed him to step back and observe the scene, like Lady Grantham had done since he had saluted the walkers.

Her raised eyebrow, her pointed stare and the staccato she played with her cane indicated everything he needed. Even if the youngsters had not totally understood his intent, his message had been received loud and clear by the Dowager.

In Inverness, the Crawleys were the guests and strangers, the Carlisles were at home.

From this simple basis, a truce could be reached.

“Rose, why don’t you take your cousins to Fraser House while I rest my legs here?” she proposed suddenly, as if she was anxious to spend some time alone with him and Abby. What on earth was going on in her twisted mind? If Lady Mary still puzzled him, the Dowager was as clear as clear water: a force to contend with.

“Granny, are you sure?” Lady Edith enquired anxiously. Of course, his earlier compliment was not enough to balance her distrust of _Sir Richard_ ’s family.

“Perfectly sure, Edith. Even if I recognize that a visit to Fraser House is something you have to do when journeying in the region, I’ve already seen more than enough kilts and tartans at the castle since my niece’s wedding.”

Of course the harpy would find nothing more amusing than insult Scottish symbols in front of him.

Mark swallowed his pride nonetheless. “We were about to have coffee, why don’t you join us, Lady Grantham?” he offered, ignoring Abby’s furious stare.

“That’s settled then,” the Dowager concluded the discussion and took a chair with authority. “I’ll wait for you here.”

As the rest of the Crawleys resumed their walk, Mark sat on his chair again, taking a more and more restless Rick on his knees – a gesture that used to soothe his namesake for a few minutes. Alas, that was too little, too late, and did not stop the boy from addressing an awful grimace at the walkers.

Abby reddened in embarrassment and took the boy from Mark’s lap, intent on scolding him properly, while the Dowager enjoyed the scene immensely.

“Let me guess, this is Rick.”

“Good guess, I’m afraid,” Mark smiled in spite of himself.

The child’s expression as his mother scolded him was priceless, an extraordinary display of stubbornness that brought Mark back decades in the past. Rick’s clenched jaw and icy eyes, the wrinkling of his forehead, the firm way he crossed his arms, not conceding anything to his mother, the child’s whole attitude was a clear reminiscence of Richie when he was a child.

“A stubborn fellow, isn’t he?” the Dowager pressed on, a small, a nostalgic grin on her face. “Mary used to be like this. Deaf to everything the adults could tell her when she decided to be. She could disappear in one of her favorite hiding places and sulk all day while the whole family and staff were looking for her.”

“Richie didn’t sulk. He expressed his disagreement vehemently, or decided that a formal interdiction wasn’t worth respecting and went on with his original plan. That’s why my wife and I decided very early to send him to Inverness during school break,” Mark explained, remembering fondly those days, even if Richie could be a walking nightmare at the time.

“How old was he?”

“Eight, nine. He was still in the parish school, and already was a little rascal.”

The Dowager snorted at the description. She clearly thought it was still the case. Even if he did agree a little, Mark would never admit this in front of her.

“Helping his grandfather with the fish and running with his cousins in the mountains helped him a great deal to… canalize his energy,” he finished his explanation.

“That’s the motto of your family, isn’t it? Study hard and work harder…”

For once, there was no hint of irony in the old woman’s voice. The necessity of adopting the former _chauffeur_ must have induced a considerable shifting in her scale of values.

“Thank God my own children weren’t as difficult,” she commented, clinging at the present conversation as if she was hesitating to broach the topic she wanted to.

It was Mark’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“What, don’t you admit that your Richard would have been a nightmare even with an army of nannies behind him?”

The old man bit back a short laugh. Not a nightmare. Armageddon or something close, especially with an army of nannies not daring to punish him properly.

“Indeed…”

An unexpected, comfortable silence settled between both the elders as they studied the ballet of the seagulls fighting for a bit of bread on the gravel revealed by the ebb tide. Mark mused that the birds’ sinister laugh provided the perfect background sound for the ironic situation.

“So, before my disapproving daughter starts to think I changed sides,” he began, his eyes fixed on Abby and the boys who had walked to the bridge to take a look at the fighting birds. “Is there anything you need, Lady Grantham?”

“Straight to the point, aren’t you, Mr. Carlisle?” the Dowager snapped back.

The woman seemed well decided to stand her ground even if she was the one asking for a favor or anything. All of a sudden, the Carlisle patriarch was reminded of one of Richard’s many descriptions of Lady Mary: a woman able to ask for a favor and make you grateful for it.

“Well, I suppose I’ve got to go ahead. The wonders of kilt crafting won’t keep these young people interested for too long.”

 _Typical_.

“Do you know this Mr. Gregson?”

Obviously, even if she did not know the whole story – and she would not ask if she did – the Dowager had felt something was amiss. Or maybe that was a symptom of her lot’s tendency to protect themselves from outside intrusions. Whatever it was, Mark was sure he would pay to play a game of chess or bridge against the matriarch.

“Since he’s the editor of one of my son’s papers, of course I’ve heard of him. Good lad, good sense of innovation, Richie plans to have him progress in the chain food when he comes back.”

Voluntarily, he left out the juiciest details.

“Does your son have something to do with Edith’s column?”

“Nothing at all, and he doesn’t care, if I may add,” he replied, anxious to clear any hint of suspicion in the Dowager’s mind. “He reads the column, so do I at the moment, and as long as your granddaughter keeps on progressing, there’s no reason to interfere with Gregson’s editorial decisions.”

“So, this is really a professional decision on his part?” she insisted, still a bit doubtful.

“I hope so!” he answered with forced cheerfulness, hoping his tone would reassure the defiant grandmother. “Listen, Lady Grantham, we heard what happened to Lady Edith, and if we had any suspicion about Gregson’s motives, he would have received an earful long ago.” Mark stressed on the _we_ , his eyes never leaving the Dowagers’.

Well, if his instincts proved right once he had checked a few things in London, Gregson would definitely receive an earful. Hopefully, Richie would be back to give it himself.

“Talking about your son, where is he at the moment? I’m surprised not to see him with you, since he seems so fond of Inverness.” Obviously, his last answer had somewhat satisfied the old woman, and she had progressed to the next topic of discomfort.

“If you ask me if there’s a chance that an uncomfortable encounter may happen in the next few days…” The underlying question was more than evident, and, for a second, Mark was tempted to snap back. However, the hint of worry in her voice seemed genuine. She really sounded afraid of a new confrontation. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he went on: “Richie’s hiking in the Himalayas with the Mallory expedition. You might have read an article or two in the paper for which your granddaughter’s been writing for the past few months, and in other places.”

“Oh, my!” the Dowager exclaimed, visibly not quite expecting this answer. “Still a restless child, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid,” Mark admitted, his smile hesitating between pride and slight worry.

“How on earth could have he been able to settle in Yorkshire?” she wondered aloud.

Once more, the question sounded genuine. From a nuisance, Richie seemed to become a topic for curiosity for her, and Mark did not know what to think about this.

“Honestly? He would have been bored to tears and would have driven everybody around him crazy.”

An almost understanding grin formed on the old woman’s lips.

“Maybe he actually did, unfortunately for him,” he conceded.

“All things considered, our family interests, and the bad blood between the McClares and your own family, it’s probably a good thing your son only managed to reveal the insufferable side of his character.”

This admission would never compensate the heartbreak, but hearing the Dowager accepting the idea of Richie being more than the persona he showed the Crawleys was almost a small victory in itself.

“Maybe, yes,” he commented thoughtfully.

“There, they’re coming back already,” she dropped the subject abruptly. “Can I trust you to keep an eye on this Gregson person?”

Obviously, she was not entirely reassured, and he could not blame her.

“Of course.”

Richie’s description came back to his mind once again, albeit a bit modified for the occasion : a woman able to twist _your_ arm into defending _her_ granddaughter without you noticing it.

“I’ll leave you to your family, now, Mr. Carlisle.”

With that, the Dowager stood up, retrieved her cane and joined her family, royally dismissing the inquisitorial glances her granddaughters shot at her.

These people were strange people, definitely.

Mark Carlisle resumed his attention to his own kin, delighted by Abby’s endless struggle against her sons who had decided that throwing stones at the Crawleys was a funny game.

Two little willful Scots they were, fighting to throw the English invaders out.

_Perfect._

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Another side to the story

Little by little, as the temperatures went from absolutely hellish to simply insufferable and the last clouds of the monsoon scattered away, Calcutta rose from her summer slumber and reclaimed the glorious title of capital of the British Raj that she had conceded for a few months to Simla. Bright red uniforms became more visible in social gatherings. Clipped accents resounded more prominently in the evenings and old decorum gave rhythm to daily life once more, from the compulsory cricket game – Martha never understood how this stunted game was supposed to be superior to baseball – to the eternal tea time.  
  
When they had first set foot in Calcutta earlier in the summer, Martha had cursed her son for his new obsession with rubber plantations, and cursed even more the impulse that had propelled her to tag along with him on this business trip. The high temperatures combined with the constant pouring made the atmosphere downright irrespirable, and the Levinsons had quickly become acquainted with the depth of the city's slumber in summertime. Like every year, Calcutta was properly deserted by the British administration and elites who took refuge in the mountains of Simla in search of a better climate. Not that it bothered Harold very much, since he had planned to travel to Bengal in order to visit the plantations he wanted to invest in. On the other hand, Martha had felt a bit dismayed at the idea of being prisoner of a stiffling city for weeks with nothing to do. Of course, she was not that fond of the stuffy British company – she had had more than her fill of white ties and other tradition during her last stay in Yorkshire – but Martha was a socialite to the core.  
  
Fortunately, she was a rather adaptable woman and even an adventurous one. The first week of her stay in Calcutta, she had managed to become acquainted with Mr. Stanley Jenkins, representative of the United Fruits Company, and his wife who seemingly came back from an extended trip to the independent kingdom of Siam - the only territory that had escaped from the British's and French's greed. Of course, Martha did not buy the idea of the wonderful cultural experience the couple had tried to sell to everyone caring to listen to them – the United Fruits never sent one of their representatives to a tropical place without a devious plan in mind – but such dubious company was better than no company at all. The fact that Mr. Jenkins was a gifted storyteller was an added bonus. Being able to spend an afternoon on Mrs. Jenkins' balcony on a regular basis and hear about the husband's every move and visit without even asking was priceless.  
  
Thanks to this most welcome distraction and the easy friendship Martha had formed with a French couple from Pondicherry – the kind of friendship that helped you to have an enjoyable journey and assured you of a roof should you decide to visit your companions' city or country if you remembered to send the compulsory letters and wishes for the New Year – the stay in Calcutta had been quite fascinating. The city, like all colonial cities, attempted to reproduce the European way of life in the tropics, but in spite of the architects and government's best efforts, colonial life was a strange experience. You could decide to have tea at five o'clock, wear white ties for dinner and play cricket, but the climate, the sounds, the smells and the colored people one met whenever they left the comfortable refuge of the European Quarter had a way of reminding the traveler that England and its immutable way of life were so far away.  
  
That was when Martha had received the terrible telegram from her daughter Cora, after an afternoon spent debating on the true nature of the social movement led by this Gandhi person on Mrs. Jenkins' balcony. She was preparing for dinner at the Laffargues' – she had acquired quite the taste for this spicy Indian gastronomy combined with unique French wines – when her maid had presented the sheet of paper.  
  
Mary-gave-birth-to-a-baby-boy-stop-Both-are-health y-stop-Sadly-Matthew-died-in-car-crash-stop.  
  
To be honest, Martha's bond with her English granddaughters had never been really strong. For years, between two spaced out visits, the three girls had been barely more than solemn faces on pictures – for their communion, their first Season – rigid paintings that only Cora's heartfelt letters gave life to. Four years of war had put another obstacle to transatlantic travels and even the safe circulation of letters, and the girls she had met in 1910 had become women in 1920 without Martha realizing it. In that sense, her latest travel to England for Mary's wedding to the heir had left a foul taste in Martha's mouth. She did not know her granddaughters, and they did not know her. Of course, she had tried to help Edith – only to have the poor girl's heart utterly broken weeks later – and taken an interest in Sybil's most fascinating husband – a gentle lad, this one. But the way Mary had treated her as little more than a source of money to save the bloody dusty estate had hurt.  
  
Deeply.  
  
However, what had hurt more was the realization that her daughter's daughters, the blood of her blood, were little more than strangers to Martha. The news about Sybil's death last year had left her cold, much to her shame: the first thought that had crossed her mind had been the idea of Cora's unbearable pain. The news about Mary's tragedy barely touched her. Mother and son were healthy; Cora would not suffer another terrible heartbreak so soon after Sybil. It was all that mattered. In fact, Martha did not give a damn about the rest of the Crawleys, their need for an heir and all their other problems. Such indifference was perfectly horrible, but she could not bring herself to grieve for her granddaughter's loss.  
  
Martha never liked the heir, after all.  
  
The Crawleys were obviously enamored with the man and the supposed modernity he brought with his middle-class upbringing. Granted, Martha had not known him long enough to go beyond her first impression of a very English young man, very sure of himself and his place in the world, honorable to a fault. These qualities that attracted her granddaughter so much she had refused a hard working millionaire were not sufficient to redeem the heir in Martha's eyes. She would have expected a lot more from the man who was bound to inherit her husband's hard won money and her own family's money.  
  
Matthew Crawley was just an heir, not a man who had built something with his hands.  
  
Martha sighed and waved at a footman – the Indian version of an English footman, complete with the token turban – to ask for another glass of champagne. Actually, the quality of the champagne was the only redeeming thing about this most boring reception at the Viceroy's palace. If anybody asked Martha, she would affirm that Calcutta was a much more amusing place when the British circus remained in Simla. As expected, Stanley Jenkins was deep in conversation with one of the Viceroy's minions – trying to wriggle some kind of commercial contract with the British Raj, surely. Martha smiled behind her champagne glass. Little did the weasel know that Harold was busy buying the lychee plantations the United Fruits coveted in Burma.  
  
The Laffargues had returned to Pondicherry, telling her to come and visit them in the next weeks. Martha had politely refused at first – she was not sure that she could endure such a long journey by train at her age – but now that she was able to witness the whole display of the British colonial pomp, she began to reconsider the offer very seriously. As she navigated through the dancing crowd, rigid as if they were dancing in Westminster great hall, to walk out to the Viceroy's magnificent garden, the notion of a week or two far from the British and their arrogance while waiting for Harold was more appealing by the minute.  
  
Other guests enjoyed the somewhat fresh air – a relative concept she had learnt during her stay in India – on the terrace. A gentle wind made the atmosphere almost breathable, drying the ever-present layer of sweat on her skin, and, for once, there were no threatening clouds in the sky, only the setting sun in the West. A dozen guests lounged in low chairs, gathered around an old general, his red coat covered with shiny medals, who treated his captive audience with the tale of his exploits during the Boer War.  
  
Martha steered away from this crowd. She did not need to be reminded of war heroes at the moment. She walked to the end of the terrace and down the stairs, into the garden proper. In the dusk light, the place looked almost surreal.  
  
Not for the first time during her journey, Martha felt as if she had stepped into a tale of some sort. A small group of guests sat by a fountain, apparently relishing the cool it provided. At the center, the hero of the evening, the alpinist Mallory related for what must have been the thousandth time his approach of Mount Everest. Somehow, Martha found the way these guests gaped at this true adventure tale more endearing than the blind admiration the general received on the terrace. The audience was truly captivated with the exception of a man who stood in the periphery, lost in contemplating the depths of the garden.  
  
A carnivorous smile formed on Martha's lips. She knew this one, or, more accurately, she had heard of him numerous times, and she had been dying to make his acquaintance since the day she had traveled to London on her way back home from Yorkshire to meet him and discourage him from publishing anything about her granddaughter. Unfortunately, she had only met some underling who had told her Sir Richard was out of the country at the moment.  
  
Now that was interesting.  
  
Before meeting the infamous newspaperman properly, Martha lingered in the alley leading to the fountain to study the man who could have been her granddaughter's husband. If Mallory still wore the stigmata of their recent expedition – tired expression, wild hair barely controlled by the pomade and wearing a heavy beard – Carlisle looked as if he had only come back from a friendly sailing competition. Of course, he was thinner than what should have been reasonable for a man of his age and standing, but his hair already had been cut short and the blade of the razor had only left a short-cropped scruff. He wore his white tie and tails as if it were a second skin.  
  
A perfect English gentleman in appearance. That must have been what had attracted Mary at first. The fact that the man was obviously handsome must have mattered at one point or another. Of course, the money must have played a big part too.  
  
However, there were some cracks in this ideal painting. First, the man was able to disappear for months to climb a mountain, which betrayed a level of independence, egoism and passion not entirely compatible with the Crawleys' obsession for duty. Then, the way he stood with his hands buried in his pockets revealed that the upstart was not that far from the gentleman. The way he let himself be absorbed by his contemplation of the garden did not evoke the figure of the monster described by the Crawleys.  
  
Martha's curiosity was piqued, definitely.  
  
"So here's the man who used to put coal in the Crawleys' stockings…" she said as she joined him by the fountain, uninvited, startling him effectively.  
  
"Do I know you?" Carlisle replied testily. His furrowed brow and steely stare conveyed his displeasure at being torn away from his reverie very effectively.  
  
"Not yet, but I heard of you a lot. And I dare hope you've heard of me as well. I'm Martha Levinson."  
  
Carlisle considered her dubiously, as if trying to find the missing piece of an obvious puzzle. Apart from this expression of vague interrogation, his poker face betrayed nothing.  
  
"I see," he said at last, blandly. "Mary's grandmother. What an unexpected surprise."  
  
Gone was the dreamy expression, replaced by an unreadable mask and a cold smile.  
  
"Indeed. At least I've the pleasure of meeting you at last," Martha answered in quite the same way. "You were out of the country last time I was in England."  
  
The man was a businessman, he had a thick skin. An allusion to Mary's wedding should not even scratch him.  
  
"Yes, it was a journey I had delayed for far too long," he said, the faintest tightening of his jaw betraying his discomfort. "I suppose you're quite familiar with the problems associated with a family member living at the other side of an ocean, especially during wartime."  
  
"You're right," Martha answered blankly. She had not expected him to aim where it hurt so quickly. A devious man he was, indeed.  
  
"Moreover," he went on almost absently. "I'm glad to meet you at last as well, Mrs. Levinson."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"So that we can dispel any misunderstanding between us," he stood up and took a cigarette out of a silver case.  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
Carlisle did not answer at once, pausing the conversation to light his cigarette with a silver lighter which matched the cigarette case. The man enjoyed his comfort and pretty toys, just like her husband and her son.  
  
"I had the impression that the Levinsons were made of harder stuff than the Crawleys, that they were more intelligent, too. Your visit to London and your discussion with McAllister proved me wrong, sadly."  
  
He exhaled the smoke of his cigarette with a controlled breath.  
  
"So that was a bluff," Martha concluded. She always had suspected it, but the disgusted way even Cora had told her about the infamous engagement had made her doubt. Had the Crawleys contaminated her daughter so much that she could not recognize a simple bluff?  
  
"An awkward one," he admitted.  
  
To his credit, he looked quite ashamed. If the shame stemmed from the ridiculousness of the bluff or from the fact he had felt the need to bargain with his fiancé, only he possessed the answer, and Martha was not cruel to the point of making him revisit this particular period of his life. She had her answer and that was what mattered: no attack against Mary would come from his side.  
  
"Shall we walk?" he asked with what could be seen as an honest smile. Obviously, her presence did not make him that uncomfortable.  
  
Martha had been around businessmen for decades now, and she had learnt not to trust such smiles. However, she was curious, and wanted to know the man better. At first sight, she liked him better than Mary's husband. Where was the monster she had heard so much about? She took the arm he offered her, thinking about this story about how he had threatened Matthew's then fiancée in the park of Downton.  
  
Somehow, she did not feel threatened at all as he led her through the alleys, warning her against treacherous steps and stones.  
  
"So, what business led you to India? I believe it isn't a favorite destination for American citizens."  
  
"We don't have colonies, so we enjoy other countries' colonial pomp and beautiful palaces."  
  
"Come back in a few years, and you'll see even more ceremony in Delhi," he replied with an amused smile.  
  
"Oh, this new capital project?"  
  
Martha had heard about it at one of the Laffargues' parties.  
  
"More than a project, in fact. Within two years, Delhi will be the new capital," he explained. "That is, if the British aren't thrown out of India before."  
  
"You don't seem too chagrined by the idea. Don't you have any interests here?"  
  
In America, rumor had it that Richard Carlisle had built his fortune in Scotland and found his place between the hegemonic Northcliffe and Beaverbrook by investing in the Empire press, in India especially.  
  
"Yes, on both sides." His smile was suddenly wolfish. "I'm a minor shareholder in the Herald which is a British paper, and I bought some actions in the Calcutta Gazette which is an Indian paper."  
  
"That's a prudent approach and a quite cynical one, too."  
  
"I prefer the word realistic. The days of the British Raj are numbered, in one way or another. Wilson has planted the seed, and nothing will stop its growth. I may not see the end of the Empire, but I try to assure the longevity of my newspaper empire as much as possible."  
  
Longevity. That was Isodore's obsession too.  
  
Building something that would last, that would outlive its creator.  
  
"You would get along with Harold," she blurted out, without thinking about the unsaid implications. Usually, she was not the kind of woman who dwelt too much on what ifs, but, the more she talked with Carlisle, the more she felt a pang of regret.  
  
"And who's Harold?" he wondered.  
  
She barely could make out his features in the growing darkness.  
  
"My son. Cora's brother," she explained. "He's decided to invest in rubber tree plantations, and lychee trees as well."  
  
"Good plan, indeed. Especially the rubber." His tone was appreciative. "But, why not in Central America?"  
  
"We were late to the dance, I'm afraid. My late husband wasn't that comfortable with the idea of overthrowing a government in order to make trees grow. And I suppose that Harold isn't really comfortable with this kind of politics either."  
  
"I take it you haven't any interests in the United Fruits," he commented. "That's commendable."  
  
Martha grinned in the shadows, and leaned a bit more on his arm when she stumbled on a hidden stone. So the insistent rumors about Carlisle's pacifism were true after all. A pacifist shark, this was an interesting concept.  
  
"It's as hypocritical as it can get," she deadpanned. Martha could let him think that her son was some weakling burdened by his conscience. "He thinks that it's better for his interests to let the Old British Empire do the dirty work."  
  
Carlisle whistled between his teeth appreciatively.  
  
"Collect the benefits as long as it's possible, and let the Raj deal with rebellious indigenes. Nice move."  
  
"Something like that," she said, pressing his arm in a complicit gesture. They spoke the same language, this was nice.  
  
"Don't let Mary's husband hear you," he went on, unable to conceal the bitterness in his voice. "I don't think he quite agrees with this kind of cynicism."  
  
Martha stopped abruptly, stunned. Of course, he just came down from his mountain, how could he know?  
  
"But don't you know?" she spoke without thinking. "The poor lad died two months ago…"  
  
It was completely dark now and she could not make out his features. How such a man would react to his rival's untimely death? At once, Martha regretted her confession. Some truths were best hidden.  
  
For a good minute, Carlisle remained silent, as if absorbing this piece of information, digesting it, trying to make sense of it. A clapping sound indicated he had taken another cigarette from his case. A brief flame and the sudden smell of tobacco followed soon. Martha heard him inspire and exhale slowly.  
  
"Dead? How?" he asked disbelievingly. "When? Where? How is Mary?"  
  
The last question was unexpected. Almost two years after having been thrown out of Downton unceremoniously, Carlisle the monster still cared about her granddaughter. So that confirmed a last rumor about him. The newspaperman had been in love to the point of protecting a Conservative family against his own political side, to the point of protecting their reputation well after the end of the engagement – by putting a lid on Robert's involvement in a Canadian company's bankruptcy.  
  
"Car accident, after his son's birth, from what I understood," Martha explained as simply as possible. "I haven't had any news from England until recently, due to the strikes."  
  
After the telegram, she had waited for a letter that never arrived. The British government had come back to its regular capital, and the social unrest had followed it, with its lot of strikes and demonstrations. There was no violence for the moment – this Gandhi guy's words were well respected – but the control of the British Raj on the Indian population was tenuous at best.  
  
"I know, I tried to send telegrams and letters home from Darjeeling, in vain. I'm leaving for England tomorrow, with the team's letters," he explained, waving in the vague direction of the fountain.  
  
Another deep exhale in the darkness.  
  
"She must be devastated."  
  
"I suppose."  
  
For the first time since she had received the telegram, Martha began to realize the hell in which her granddaughter had been thrown into. Mary had tried to use her, and barely considered her as family, but nobody deserved such a fate.  
  
"So, she had a son."  
  
"Yes, but I don't know his name, yet."  
  
Yet another exhale.  
  
"She's strong, she'll get through it for her son, I'm sure."  
  
She wished she could be as positive as he was. During her stay in Yorkshire, Mary had not impressed her grandmother by any kind of strength. To be honest, she had found Sybil's calm stubbornness and Edith's attempt to resist the family's contempt much more impressive.  
  
"She doesn't have any choice left but go through it," he amended his previous statement.  
  
Always the realist.  
  
Martha liked him.  
  
A lot.  
  
They resumed their walk silently and returned to the terrace. The general in his red uniform still amused a growing crowd. Dancers turned and twirled in the ballroom, the men's faces reddening with exertion but bearing their white ties and evening tails that suffocated them with a stiff upper lip.  
  
Once assured she was safely back inside, Carlisle turned to face her.  
  
"I wish you a lovely stay in India, Mrs. Levinson," he saluted her, his expression being a strange mix of British formality and unspoken fondness.  
  
"And I wish you a safe trip back home, Richard," she answered in kind. "You don't mind me calling you Richard? As an American, I've the hardest time with all these titles." That was partially true, because she had not hesitated to marry her daughter to an Earl, and had paraded her daughter's title around New York for months.  
  
"Away from the British isles, everything is permitted, Martha."  
  
The almost timid smile that formed on his lips was a genuine one, the kind of grin that reached the eyes.  
  
It was a good smile, Martha decided as Carlisle turned around to leave the ballroom.  
  
"Richard?" she called against reason. Some things were better left unsaid. "For what it's worth, we would have welcomed you with open arms."  
  
But sometimes, telling them made you feel better.  
  
"Thank you, Mrs. Levinson," he acknowledged her intention with a fugitive melancholic expression. "It matters, a lot."  
  
Martha watched him as he walked out the ballroom with measured steps. Life could be cruelly ironic. The man Mary wanted so much crashed his car on the deserted roads of Yorkshire the day of his son's birth, leaving his family alone. The man she didn't want came back alive and well from an expedition in the Himalayas, a much more dangerous matter than a simple drive around Downton. The family man was dead. The single man was still alive.  
  
One could argue it was unfair.  
  
And they would be quite right.  
  
But since when had life been fair?  
  
The wheel of fate had a weird sense of humor.


	4. A snowy day

London, November 30th, 1921  
  
For the last few days, London had been buried under a heavy blanket of vicious ice and dirty snow.  
  
A lone, unsteady silhouette among the rushing crowd of Londoners, an elderly, distinguished man swallowed a curse as his cane slipped once more on an invisible patch of black ice, hidden under the half frozen mud covering the pavements on Fleet Street. Snow in his beloved mountains was a precious sight, a source of infinite wonder, even at his advanced age. The white pureness covering the land and the rocks and the bushes, the surreal silence that muted every sound, the crystalline scent that penetrated the walker's nostrils, all these experiences he had learnt to enjoy since he had been big enough to go out and play in the snow.  
  
However, there was nothing to enjoy about snow in the big city. Dark mud replaced spotless white pureness within an hour or two, sounds of angry shouts and screeching tyres betrayed the discomfort of the walkers and drivers. A sense of panic seemed to overwhelm the already frantic enough city, blocking roads and train tracks, paralyzing transports and entire neighborhoods for hours, trapping effectively the visitor within the confine of the capital. The only redeeming thing about snow in London was that, for a few moments, the atmosphere was less suffocating, the falling snowflakes having managed to trap the chimney smoke and motor exhausts and take the ordinarily floating black dust to the ground, mixing them into dirty mud that would soon reach the sewers then the river, cleaning the city for a little while.  
  
Mark Carlisle disliked London to say the least. He did not like the noise and the smell, the constant movement and the feeling of oppression. However, his son Richard had reverted back to his usual restlessness after the failure of his engagement to the Crawley girl, and had been out of the country, sharing the honor of sponsoring and being part of the English expedition in the Himalayas lead by George Mallory for the better part of the year. Like the year before when Richard had traveled to New Zealand, such a situation meant that someone had to mind the shop during the boss' absence, a duty Mark accomplished not without undisguised pleasure.  
  
After all, mountain and journalism were in the father's blood as much as they ran in the son's veins.  
  
Yet, these past few days, the old man would have given back the reins of the newspaper empire to his son gladly. It would have meant that Richard was back safe and sound from his damn expedition and that he would be the one to deal with the horrifying mess that the first page of the rag Mark clenched in his left hand, had started the day before.  
  
The Black Widow. Web of Death Surrounds Lady Mary Crawley.  
  
The title alone was ignominious, and the content on page ten downright nauseating. In spite of Richard's caution and bribery, somebody had put their hand on the Turkish story and everything surrounding it; somebody crazy enough, and probably powerful enough, to suggest that Richard had disappeared during the Mallory expedition, thus making him the latest victim of the Black Widow.  
  
For now, the old man only felt that anger and indignation and worry were sentiments he could not afford. What on earth was going on in Northcliffe's head for authorizing such a stupid article in his Daily Mail? Mark Carlisle had heard insistent rumors about the tycoon's more and more questionable sanity these last months. However, even if, as some timid voices repeated behind the safety of private clubs, Northcliffe had lost touch with reality, there was no way he would authorize such a direct attack aimed at one of his most untamed rivals. The ferocity of the showdowns between the owner of the Daily Mail and the "upstart from the Glasgow slums" as some had nicknamed Richard in reference to the way he had not build his success in London but in the North first, was almost legendary. Never mind the unimportant fact that the Carlisles were not from Glasgow but from Edinburgh. However, to Londoners, all the Scottish cities were probably one and the same.  
  
Mark saluted the guard with a slight inclination of the head, mumbling his absent answer to the too cheerful "Good morning, Mr. Carlisle" he heard as he walked up the four steps leading to the entrance hall of the building his son, and his crew, had jokingly dubbed the HQ. This was one of these grandiloquent Victorian buildings, the solemn, classical testimony set in stone of the British Empire power in every city that had contributed to its expansion in the course of the previous century. In that sense, Glasgow, former "second city of the Empire", was very similar to London. The buzzing activity and the creative or artistic dynamism were other similarities, the capital in the north being nothing but a smaller model of the capital in the south. No wonder Richard felt at home here, even if it pained the Scot in Mark Carlisle. In fact, his son's biggest jump was not his journey down south – Mark refused to use the expression "travel up to London" on principle – but his decision to go and study in Glasgow, betraying a deep rooted family tradition in the process.  
  
This true crossing of the Rubicon had been a bold move, but Richard always thrived in adversity and, in a couple of years, he had managed to have people forget he originally came from the East. Then, with a bit of luck, another bit of creativity and lots of work, Richard had begun to build his empire, stone by stone, photo by photo, paper by paper.  
  
The perfect combination of Carlisle and Dunbar.  
  
That was Mark's late wife's fair description of their son: a bookworm with legs and fists and a great sense of trade ever since he was old enough to stand on his feet and loudly proclaim his just place in the world.  
  
However, with this capacity to invent an empire came Richard's uncanny ability to get in trouble. Too proud for his own good, he often talked too much, especially when he felt wronged – the Crawley debacle was the best recent example. In a nutshell, Richard could be a remarkable chess player but suffered from a fatal flaw, his tendency to underestimate his opponent. That was why the father still won two games out of three against the son.  
  
The bell of the lift and the typical sound of a sliding gate put an end to the fond reminiscences. With all the snow, there was no way Mark could travel up North to join his visiting daughter and her family this week-end. Well, in little less than a month and with a little bit of luck, the whole family would be able to gather for Christmastime. For now, the only productive thing he could do was making profit of his unwilling stay in London to clarify the whole mess. Another ring of the bell announced he had reached his floor. The old man stepped out of the elevator and walked to his son's office, barely acknowledging the solemn "Have a good day Mr. Carlisle" uttered by the bellboy behind him, straight as a butler in his uniform and brass buttons. At the moment, the only sane hypothesis that came to his mind was that Richard had managed to infuriate Northcliffe in some way during his short stay in Britain between his return from New Zealand with Abby and his departure to India. Once or twice, he had heard a barely controlled disgust in his son's voice as they talked on the phone about the Conservatives' latest moves and Northcliffe's growing megalomania.  
  
"Who would have thought? The man is even worse with the Reds than he used to be with the Fritz… He's seeing Bolsheviks and traitors everywhere. When I'm back, I'll have to distance myself from him." That was what Richard had said less than a week before leaving Europe. Maybe the man who saw enemies everywhere had felt his competitor's new resolve in some way and had made the first move.  
  
That was the only rational explanation. It could only come from the top. No underling would have dared to shatter the frail truce between arguably two of the biggest egos in London.  
  
"Good morning, Miss Fields," Mark saluted politely, letting her take his hat, coat and cane before heading to the main office. "Is there anything new since yesterday?" he enquired, trying his best to hide any hint of worry in his voice. Maybe a telegram with good news had arrived at last.  
  
"No, I'm sorry, Mr. Carlisle," Richard's secretary answered, her eyes downcast as she composed herself.  
  
That was bad: worry started to creep slowly into the building. That was very bad. Richard was not a nice man by any means, but his employees genuinely respected and even liked him.  
  
"Did you manage to know who this Garland bloke was at last?"  
  
The article was bad enough, but the fact that a perfectly unknown journalist had committed it added salt to the wound, and water to the mill of Mark's theories.  
  
"It's a pseudonym. Mr. McAllister is working on this."  
  
"What a surprise," Mark had to force himself not to roll his eyes.  
  
"And there's a visitor for you, Lady Mary's grandmother, I believe. I told her to wait in the office, by the fireplace."  
  
The old man stopped in his tracks, his hand already on the doorknob. Of course, the piece of garbage had reached the Crawleys. Mark Carlisle had no love for the aristocratic family, but he could empathize with their pain at being the aim of such a dirty article.  
  
Welcome to our world, Lady Grantham.  
  
"Is she… vindictive?" he had to ask. The last thing he needed was the Crawley tribe believing Richard was the cause of this mess in some way.  
  
"Not at all, sir. I'd say she's pretty shaken. A poor old woman, if I may say."  
  
"Wonderful, just wonderful" Mark Carlisle sighed before entering the office.  
  
-/-  
  
Lady Mary's grandmother sat by the fireplace, all her attention visibly focused on the show offered by the dancing flames, as if mesmerized by them. She had aged since the last time he had met, a few days after Matthew Crawley's funeral, as if each untimely death of a young person sucked more life out of her. Under the slightly out of fashion hat – even a middle class man could recognize pre-war fashion – her hair had got whiter. More wrinkles had formed on her tired face. Life had been hard for the old woman lately.  
  
"Lady Grantham, good morning," Mark greeted as he stepped into his son's office as naturally as if it were his own.  
  
"Mr. Carlisle," she acknowledged his presence, still focused on the fire. "I suppose you know the reason for my visit."  
  
And a good morning to you too…  
  
"Yes, I do."  
  
Realizing she would not move from her seat – a silent but efficient way to assert her social and moral superiority – Mark chose to sit beside her, and started to contemplate the fire as well. He did not speak immediately, letting her to reveal her cards – and her intentions – first. He had never been more than a mere editor, and his only attempt at independent publishing had been a painful failure, only because he did not know how to make money, not because he could not play the game.  
  
To reassure the woman as much as he could, and keep the Crawleys under control, it was better to let her ask the questions.  
  
"I lived under the impression that your son had secured everything about a certain story…"  
  
She did not have to go farther than this allusion.  
  
"Indeed, as far as I know, he had obtained Vera Bates' silence by buying the exclusivity."  
  
"For a man who repeated to whoever listened to him how powerful he was in London, I find it very disappointing to discover how little control your son had on this particular subject." Her voice was clipped, full of disdain and renewed animosity. "Or is it some delayed and particularly cruel revenge?"  
  
Mark stood up at once, walked to the fireplace and leaned on his hands which clutched the marble mantelpiece nervously. Had the woman missed the little bit about Richard being Lady Mary's latest victim? Was she ignoring it on purpose, to force him to reveal his own cards? Was she ignoring it because the pain and indignation on her granddaughter's behalf blinded her?  
  
"Lady Grantham," he began coldly, turning away from the fireplace to face her, tower over her with his full size. For a man of his generation, he was considered as a tall one, and for the first time in decades, he felt the need to use it to his advantage.  
  
Damn the Crawleys and their inner sense of superiority. Now, he could understand the nature of Richard's frustrations with this family.  
  
The way the old woman raised a pair of steely eyes to consider him showed that she was conscious of her disadvantage, that she was already planning to reverse the positions as soon as she could. Miss Fields did not miss the mark often on people's personality, but, in this case, she had been properly fooled.  
  
"For one, as far as I remember, it is your granddaughter who sought Richard's help after their engagement. I realize that they had kept it between themselves at first, that, at the very least, Lady Mary had not announced it to you. However, Richie had told us about it weeks before the announcement in the newspapers. From your side of the story, I can understand that the announcement came out of the blue. If you combine the regrettable Turkish story with this interpretation of the chronology and whatever Miss Swire told you, it's only natural that you let yourselves convince of the existence of blackmail."  
  
He had spoken quickly, controlling his brogue as much as he could in his anger, unwilling to let his opponent interrupt his tirade. Without giving her the chance to reply yet, he went on, more calmly.  
  
"Now, once and for all, let me tell you my vision of the situation. Your granddaughter and my son were engaged, and she asked for his help to cover a former scandal, the same way she asked for his help when she needed to find your son's valet. I know Richie's quick temper and tendency to put his foot in his mouth, especially when he feels provoked. They must have fought, badly, and he must have said more than stupid things."  
  
He paused for a beat, not enough to let her reply, but enough to let his words sink in.  
  
"However, there was no blackmail, only stupid, angry words from a man realizing his affections weren't reciprocated. Do you know my son was really in love with you granddaughter?"  
  
Another beat.  
  
"There was no blackmail because one simply doesn't blackmail by threatening to reveal a truth that would be as detrimental for their reputation as for the blackmailed person's."  
  
"You seem awfully sure…" Her tone was dubious, defiant. The old woman had persuaded herself that Richard had something to do with the damn article.  
  
"Of course!" Mark exclaimed. "Revealing it after the break up, in the wake of Lady Mary's engagement to Matthew Crawley, would have been akin to admitting Richard had been cuckolded not once but twice!"  
  
"Your son sounded very threatening and sure of himself two years ago," she replied rhetorically.  
  
"Aren't you familiar with the concepts of empty threats and hazardous gambling?"  
  
"Not in my world. We aren't very comfortable with the idea of gambling, especially." Irony had crept back in her voice. It was a good sign that the crisis was over, for now.  
  
Mark allowed himself to let out a relieved a sigh and his shoulders went back to their usual, a little slouched position. He took a step back to lean on the mantle, the fire behind him warming his protesting vertebras, relaxing his tensed back muscles. He was way too old to play the card of physical intimidation: this was his son's playground now. However, in Richie's absence, someone had to do the grunt work – and put an end to Lady Grantham's nasty suspicions was part of it, whether he liked or not.  
  
The real discussion could begin, at last.  
  
"So," he went on at last, after yet another pensive silence. "Now that we have stated our irreconcilable differences as parents and accepted the gap of our class prejudice, what can I do to help you, Lady Grantham? If you had read the same piece of trash that I did, I hope you'll understand that your granddaughter's reputation is the least of my concerns at the moment."  
  
The sudden widening of his interlocutor's eyes was more than enough to reveal what the woman's state of mind had been since the moment the article was released.  
  
Blind indignation on Lady Mary's behalf.  
  
Blind protectiveness.  
  
To be honest, Mark could not throw the first stone. He had barely registered the implications of the damn article for his son's former fiancée, her reputation, her well-being. Worse, he had totally ignored the impact on the Crawleys as a family. He and the old woman were only guilty of protecting their own.  
  
"I'm truly sorry for my lack of sensitivity. In fact, I..." Lady Grantham said with a small voice, and a little bit of incomprehension.  
  
"It's only natural…" he cut her off abruptly.  
  
Her pity was the last thing Mark needed at the moment. He needed to stay focused on identifying the real source of the article and possibly light a counter fire. He had to control the most restless shareholders and investors who would try to make profit of the rumor. He had to reassure the rest of the family back home.  
  
"Mr. Carlisle, please," she cut in, not unkindly. Her head was tilted under the slightly out-of-fashion hat, her eyes a little questioning. "Have you not received any news?"  
  
He turned a cold stare on her and left the comfort of the fireplace. A feeling of almost burning heat had replaced the feeling of nice warmth anyway, and he could feel his ears reddening.  
  
"Why do you think everyone in the damn building is a nervous wreck?" he snapped angrily, the worries he had kept bottled up for the last hours threatening to overwhelm him.  
  
"Well, since we received some news about Cora's mother at last, I supposed you did as well. That's why I thought…"  
  
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand."  
  
This was a rather painful and shameful admission, especially given who he was talking with, but Mark was beyond keeping appearances.  
  
"Cora's mother is Martha Levinson," she began to explain, motioning for him to sit down again, as if she was having a chat in her damn boudoir.  
  
"I know that," he replied impatiently, but answered her silent invitation positively. His hip had been bothering him more than he cared to admit lately.  
  
"Her son, Harold, made some investment in India, in a plantation of some sort, and the restless woman had jumped at this opportunity to travel a bit."  
  
Mark almost smiled at Lady Grantham's repressed shudder at the idea of travelling to such places. The Crawleys were creatures of habits, only comfortable in their native habitat.  
  
"Cora received a telegram from her mother earlier this week. She had been a little worried because no news had come through for almost two months, not even a simple telegram," she said with careful words. "A niece of mine is in India as well, and news had been scarce as well. From what I understood, there's much social unrest at the moment, and repeated strikes, because of this Gandhi I believe."  
  
Good God!  
  
"Long story short, Mrs. Levinson met your son and his fellow adventurers in Calcutta almost a month ago. He was embarking the next day or so."  
  
A month ago, in Calcutta… It would mean that Richie would be near Port Said, or even closer…  
  
"To be honest, I thought your son was back in London, and…"  
  
"And you found the release of the article too coincidental to be true," he finished her sentence almost absently, already devising his counter-attack.  
  
In a week or so, Richie would be home but there was no way he could let Northcliffe and his minions act as they wished.  
  
"So, Mr. Carlisle," the old woman spoke at last, breaking his reverie, mimicking his earlier expression. "Now that we have put this regrettable common misunderstanding aside, what's our next move?"  
  
Our? Given the bad blood between their families, this was more than a little ironical. But the piece of news she had just given him had put him in a very generous mood. Richie could shatter the temporary alliance if he wished once back to the helm of his ship.  
  
For now, Mark was the captain.  
  
Carefully choosing his next words, he sat back more comfortably, forcing his muscles to relax, his jaw to unclench, his heart tempo to slow down.  
  
"I believe your daughter's quite influential in London," he said almost absently, testing the waters.  
  
"If you're alluding to Rosamund's ability to hawk rumors, then, yes, she is."  
  
"Then you might want to pay her a visit very quickly… There have been insistent rumors about Lord Northcliffe's health lately."  
  
If the owner of the Daily Mail wanted to play dirty, that was something the Carlisle clan was not shy to do either. Before his departure for India, Richard had given him a file with nurses' testimonies – a good wad of money tended to make them forget the notion of patient confidentiality – giving a good idea of Northcliffe's health.  
  
"I don't know if I'm entirely comfortable with the notion of hawking such salacious rumors," Lady Grantham replied uneasily, turning slightly on her seat to face the fire once again.  
  
She had misunderstood his meaning.  
  
"No, no," he shook his head reassuringly. "The man is simply dying from a most banal pulmonary infection. Nothing dirty, but it appears that his investors and shareholders aren't privy to that fact…."  
  
"It would be a way to return the favor for the indirect attack to your son's interests," she followed his clue.  
  
"And a way to avenge yourself by contributing to the counter-fire I'm preparing," he concluded. "Of course, our lawyers will prepare an action for slander: the goal isn't a trial, of course, but a printed apology."  
  
"Isn't it a little insufficient?"  
  
Now that her enemy was clearly identified, the old woman slowly refocused her animosity.  
  
"For the biggest attack, we'll have to wait for Richie. He's the one who knows how to muzzle Northcliffe." An inquisitive eyebrow forced him to explain: "Apparently, the settling operation in Australia had not been the blatant and honest success that had been presented in the press."  
  
A pair of blue eyes shone almost cruelly.  
  
"Please do keep silent on that last point. Spoiling our best cards would do no good," Mark cautioned, wary of an excess of vengeful enthusiasm on the Dowager's part.  
  
"I know nothing about poker and gambling, but I do know how to play bridge, Mr. Carlisle. I'm rather good at it," she answered with feigned indignation.  
  
Good.  
  
The crisis was averted.  
  
The counter-attack was ready.  
  
The only problem was that Mark did not know who had helped who in this case.


End file.
